The first poem I ever wrote--just about three years ago and mentioned in our first post--was called "Night Writer." Since I only felt secure writing haiku, I linked five-syllable and seven-syllable lines into a "real" poem. It summed up the anxiety I felt about not writing, while feeling the primal urge I had to do just that. Maybe some other writers can identify with these feelings and actions (or inactions, I guess).
I submitted it to "Wanderings Magazine" and son of a gun if it wasn't accepted for publication. Still surprises me when I think about it.
So much of my best work is done
behind closed eyes
with covers pulled over my head,
waiting for sleep
to snuff out the day's misspent hours.
But in that time,
in the sweet near-sleep's breath and breath,
my artist wakes
and writes great tales in blackest ink
on darkest air.
I hear his words, unseen, unread,
and wish that I
could save them, memorize each line,
or capture them
in my nearby (empty) notebook.
But, lights turned on,
my artist and his words are gone,
the blackness unread, as penned in
milk on bed sheets.